


My Last Date With You

by homo_pink



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Obsession, Pedophiliac Undertones, Romance, Underage Sex, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homo_pink/pseuds/homo_pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is quietly obsessed with the Padaleckis, a neighborhood family that comes into his grocery store, where he works at the Photo Lab. The whole family fascinates him. And then he falls in love with one of them. </p>
<p>"According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word ‘snapshot’ was originally a hunting term."</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Last Date With You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn_cinema 2013 and inspired by [One Hour Photo](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0265459/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1)
> 
> (Jared is 15 throughout most of this.)

In all, Jensen probably owns more than twenty different cameras.

A collector never stops collecting and his stash has been growing for over a decade. He has all sorts of different styles and sizes, some he’s had to save months on end to be able to afford and others that came to him as hand-me-downs or junky clunkers he found at a thrift shop or yard sale maybe, and purchased simply for the novelty.

He has his Canon EOS 5D that he gets out for special occasions and he has his stealthy point and shoots when he doesn’t want to be too obvious but needs to capture whatever moment he’s in somehow, store it safely in an album behind lamination where its presence won’t be disturbed in his lifetime. Still, a lot of the time he prefers his vintage Polaroid with its instant gratification, his first camera from years long past, a gift from his father.

Jared Padalecki, on the other hand, owns exactly one. Jensen knows because he gave it to Jared on his sixteenth birthday. That’s the camera that ends up being the one he thinks of most, some cheaply made disposable thing, because that’s the camera that eventually and inevitably turns Jensen's whole careful little existence inside out.

 

-

 

Most days tended to seep right on in to the next for Jensen, his nine to fives bleeding and blurring and hardly able to be distinguished as separate things. He didn’t mind it though; liked it, preferred it, even. The monotony went a long way in helping to soothe his mild paranoia, the regularity comforting in an uncomfortable world.

The booth he was seated at didn’t have his name on it but everyone knew it was his and they'd leave it unoccupied. There were only ever two or three early birds at the Ferris’ Wheel Diner when he arrived and while he wasn't quite sure the portly chef and the owner slash waitress counted in his tally, he liked to figure they did. His usual plate of buttermilk pancakes was plunked down in front of him and he pressed his lips into a pleased little grin and began to undress his silverware. Napkin on his lap, fork at 3 o’clock, knife at nine and his pulpy juice topped off to the rim. There was a reason he’d been going there for years, Ms. Samantha knew just what he liked.

“Maybe one of these days you’ll bring your cutie in here with ya,” she had winked at him, leaving him alone with his breakfast and his sudden wild, wild thoughts. 

He'd thumbed at the unhemming corner of the tablecloth and felt his ears going hot in his fluster again, remembering the first time she caught him with one of his photos, the way he'd been staring at it, holding it. Remembering how she said something about _boyfriend_ because she hadn't been wearing her glasses and hadn't seen how young, how– and Jensen remembered how he hadn't bothered correcting her, even though it held no real truth. Not back then.

“Maybe one of these days I will,” he'd whispered, long after she'd gone, little smile growing in size and heart. 

The photo propped up against the salt shaker continued to smile back at him.

 

-

 

Jensen’s loved the Padaleckis for a long time, all of them.

They come to visit him at work often, multiple times a month. Not all at once usually, just one or two at a time; they're thoughtful like that, they know he's not good with big crowds. They don’t always have time to stop by his area and chit chat, but he understands. Busy people lead busy lives. They buy the big bag of Kingsford Charcoal for the weekends they barbecue, stop in for ricotta cheese and oregano on lasagna nights, sometimes a quick run in just for a stash of sweets when someone, Jared presumably, runs out.

The Padaleckis are kindhearted, smiling, charming people who live in a beautiful home with fountains and walkways and Jensen feels like a lifelong friend. He's read _The End of Alice_ , a recommendation from Mrs. Padalecki (when he saw a copy sticking out of her purse one day) and he looks at golf magazines sometimes too, a similarity he shares with her husband. He knows their address by heart of course, just like any family should. He even has four years worth of Christmas cards from them that he places out on his mantle each year when the holiday season rolls around. The whole clan done up in festive sweaters and scarves and matching grins, even the family pets are included.

And sure, maybe he didn’t _directly_ receive the cards in his mailbox but he printed the sets out for them each time. He knows one was always meant for him. They’re all just so great. So great.

But he’s especially fond of their middle child.

 

-

 

Jensen gets to the store just as the lights are beginning to flicker on and the Oldies radio station starts to croon out a dull hum from the overhead speakers. It’ll still be a ghost town for another hour or so, until the sounds of hustling and bustling take over, the rest of the world emerging from their cocoons and hurrying to stock up on their necessities for life. Hamburger Helper, a bakery Danish or two, ultra ribbed condoms.

Jensen watches people and their purchases all day long, observing from his little perch behind the Photo Lab counter. 

“Morning Jensen,” Mary Helen says as he walks past her to the lockers and with his good manners, he nods and smiles and keeps on going, listening to his rubbery soles squeak squeak as he goes.

Standing at the mirror in the back, he adjusts the collar of his polo and straightens his wire frame glasses. He smooths out a few folds and wrinkles on his vest, dusting off a wayward fuzz of lint, re-pins his nametag in place when he catches it sitting crooked and smiles once, slowly, at his reflection. It would make for a nice photo, he thinks. He stares until he's forced to blink. One hundred and forty three seconds, almost beating his record. 

He clocks in and heads out past the double doors. He wonders who he’ll see today.

 

-

 

“I’ll need two copies of each, in two separate envelopes. Matte, not glossy. Four by sixes, nothing bigger.”

Jensen ticks off down the list of columns as he goes, scribbling in any missed information and sealing the rolls of film inside when he’s done. No matter how many times Mrs. Whitely comes in to get photos from her horse shows developed, it’s always the same routine. And she always forgets to write something down.

“Same day, next day or one hour?” Jensen asks on autopilot, even though she won't be back for a week.

She leaves and he places the order into the yellow bin on the left, perfunctory smile on his face. Jensen loves his job.

After Mrs. Whitely, it’s a few first timers and a couple more regulars who have yet to succumb to the whole digital craze. He’ll have them ready at the top of the hour, he says.

Susan and Trish come in and leave this week’s collection of inventive amateur porn with household objects in his faithful hands, trusting him with their skeletons. Week before last it was whisks and spatulas; a month ago, vegetables. Jensen doesn’t stop to think about what he might be privy to this time. He gives them their delivery time and sends them on their way.

Clyde Barnes spends his time documenting all stages of various insect life cycles and unknowingly educates Jensen with all of his findings. It’s no object insertion, but fascinating enough in its own way.

 

-

 

During lunch hour, Jensen sits in his car with two paper towel squares on his lap, eating canned chicken and packaged crackers while the lovely Skeeter Davis keeps him company in the background. It's much nicer than sitting in the drab break room having to pretend to be interested in Judge Judy on the ancient box TV. That only ever makes him feel tense and trapped and even so, it's much too nice out to stay cooped up. 

Jensen lowers his window half-way down to catch the light breeze on the late morning air and nods along with the tunes. 

He sips his tea and opens a ziploc bag of red grapes, reaching over to turn up the volume.

 

-

 

At a quarter to four, just after school's let out, the store starts to fill again. Jensen busies himself behind the tinted window separating him from the rest of the wild humanity. He giggles at his own dramatic flair and finishes processing the last of the orders for his shift, sorting and packaging and chucking out misprints and black copies.

“I’m only grabbing a few things for tonight, I won’t be too long,” he hears someone on the other side of the swinging door say, already on his way out incase there’s a nearby customer that he can assist or direct elsewhere if needed. Nobody can ever find the gardening aisle. And then—

“Oh really, a few? Good luck with that, I’ll just wait here.” Laughter.

Jensen stops abruptly, almost thuds into the door and catches his balance just in time. That voice would be distinguishable even in his sleep, nothing having come close to it yet. He often hears it there as well, in the deepest pockets of his unconscious, giggling and whispering and begging him please. It may have pitched lower over the years, scratchy drag of puberty almost untraceable, but it’s still got that same overexcited quality it carried throughout its youth.

He hunches down to once over his reflection in the blacked out monitor screen and runs a quick hand over his forehead, wipes his hands on the thighs of his pants. He walks out calmly and his knees stay solid.

“Hello again, Mr. Padalecki,” Jensen says, careful and calm. 

“Hello again, Mr. Ackles,” the boy mimes back purposely, though not mocking. This is their favorite little joke. 

Jensen feels his cheeks color up warmly and he ducks his chin, places his hands on the counter, palms flat so they don’t do anything ridiculous like start quivering in his excitement and says as best as he can, “What can I do for you today?” 

 

-

 

Before the other stuff, Jensen was Jared’s best friend. Jared said so himself.

When it began though, Jensen was just as helpless to it as he is now. It all seemed to sort of unspool quietly and over time: the family stopping in every few days or so; Jared giving him a friendly little wave before they left; Jared wandering up and down the nearby toy aisle until he'd eventually grow bored and go on over to plunk his elbows down on the Photo Lab counter and watch Jensen go about his work.

Sometimes Jared would tell him about a movie he'd seen or his submission to the science fair or whatever pressing thing was on his mind at the time. Jared would talk and Jensen would listen and Jensen remembers thinking that the skinny little ten year old, with the hands and feet and legs he was still growing into, was something so remarkable.

Jensen would go out to the field and watch Jared play soccer with the other neighborhood kids in the evenings. He'd make sure Jared got home okay, walking him to the end of his block while Jared rode alongside on his bike.

They were best friends and best friends shared things with each other. Code words and chocolate candy bars and secrets that nobody else could ever know. 

Jensen remembers the day Jared broke his arm and had to get a cast put on, and later, how he felt when Jared told him the reason why he chose green when they let him pick the color. He remembers the field trips and the rock collection and all the things Jared had sworn him to secrecy on. Jensen remembers Jared turning twelve and then thirteen and his hair growing longer and getting into his eyes. And Jensen distinctly remembers the day something new bubbled up hot in his veins; sudden and scary, and as permanent and unstoppable as death itself.

 

-

 

It isn’t a far drive to Brackenridge Park, not really, but the 5 o’clock traffic clogs the city’s arterial roads and Jensen doesn’t make it until well after the sun has started to receed.

He pulls into the first open parking spot he sees and rushes out of his car, scanning everywhere until he sees Jared’s bike settled up against a tree. It’s at the entrance of one of the hiking trails Jared uses most when he needs someplace private to go. It must be serious if Jared’s requested that he meet him here, specifically here, _as soon as you get off work_. 

Over three hundred acres of nature at her finest, the place is usually well populated; and thanks to her size, one might only ever run into less than a handful. The river, the kiddie areas, it’s the kind of gorgeous place someone would head to if they wanted to get away from it all.

Jensen quickens his pace.

“You came,” Jared says, when he sees Jensen step into the clearing. Like Jensen might not have, like there was ever a choice.

“You asked me to.”

Jared smiles at that, something soft, and stretches his legs out, kicks at a couple of stones. He waits until Jensen is standing right next to the old hollow tree he’s sitting in before he turns to him again, says to somewhere in the vicinity of Jensen’s shoulder, “Sit.”

Jensen does. He sits on the little carved out bench in the old oak and watches a pair of squabbling birds through a hole in the bark. This isn’t the first time they’ve sat here in the quiet calm over the years and he’s content to enjoy the rush of the river in the distance and rustling leaves whenever a skateboarder or two whiz past, until Jared’s ready to say whatever it is he has to say.

Doesn’t like his new teacher, got grounded for calling his little sister a shithead, doesn’t want to get braces and his parents might make him. No, this isn’t the first time Jensen’s been here. 

It won’t be the last.

“Do you ever—“ Jared says, just when Jensen’s started to think maybe this time he won’t say anything at all. 

Jensen passes a quick glance to him, waiting for him to go on. He already knows he can’t let himself look for too long before it becomes outright staring, before it becomes something else after that.

“The Sadie Hawkins dance is in a few weeks,” Jared says on a sigh, watching the heel of his shoe scuff at the earth below. So that’s what this is about, Jensen thinks. “It’s just, it’s not even important. Not to me, or anything, but my mom keeps making it out to be some bigshit monumental _thing_ and I just, I’d actually rather not even go.”

“Why?” Jensen knows why _he_ didn’t attend his own, or any of the others like it, but Jared’s a popular enough kid, people love him. Some people always will.

“Mom keeps asking what color dress I think Sandy will wear so she can go find a _tie_ to match. A tie. For me. What a joke.” 

Jared looks angrier than Jensen’s seen him in a while, nothing like how he looked a few hours ago when he stopped by before the end of Jensen’s shift. 

Jensen hmms, not knowing what else to say. Sandy lives up the street from Jared, a cute little thing with long, shiny hair that would look just right on his arm, walking into a glittery, lit up dance hall. She’s perfect for him, just like Jared’s mom has always said. Just like Jensen too has always known. 

“Yup. Can you imagine? Me, in a purple bowtie or some shit.” He snorts, but it’s a stinging, humorless thing.

Yes, Jensen can. But instead, “Pink is more your color, yeah.”

That earns him a short little bark of laughter and the lines etched into Jared’s forehead go away for a brief while. The quiet picks back up but it feels different now, stilted in some way Jensen can’t name but doesn’t like. Jared looks as wooden as the tree they’re in and in some manner, just as hollow, further away from Jensen’s side than they usually sit, too formal.

“You can always tell your mom no, can’t you?” he asks, gently. Jared’s eyes seem to gain some of their sparkle back so he keeps going, trying to think of anything to get Jared to smile again. “Or maybe that new girl from your art class will ask you, you said she was nice.” Even though that’s the last thing Jensen wants, he says it anyway, and can feel the blooming pain reach all the way down into his chest at the picture it paints in his head, Jared and somebody who isn't him. 

“'Nice',” Jared repeats, cruel, practically spitting it.

Jensen closes his mouth and turns back to the little hole, wondering what he did wrong, and he hears Jared curse to himself under his breath.

“I’m sorry, hey Jen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. I know you’re trying to help or whatever but it’s not. It isn’t helping, okay?” Jared is talking still, Jensen can feel a light air of warmth from his breath and he knows Jared is facing him now but he can’t bring himself to turn back, feeling scolded.

“You’re right,” Jared admits, his voice bland and cold like he's reading from a grocery list. He never talks to Jensen like this. Others, yes. But not _Jensen_. “You’re right. Genevieve _is_ nice. And funny, and can paint the fuck out of some scenes from old horror films and yeah, she’s pretty cute if you’re into that stuff. Sweet as hell too.”

Jensen can feel his tear glands trying to work overtime, those traitorous things, his pulse hammering out a sick, frantic throb, and he forces himself to not blink, _stay dry, stay dry_ , he’s got this, he’ll win out. 

Lightly, Jared touches his arm, a barely there rub of fingers, but it shocks Jensen so strongly that he flinches back hard until he’s pressed flush against his side of the tree. 

Jared looks at him like he has no idea who Jensen is. That, more than anything, is what kills.

“Jensen?”

“So go with her,” he says, frantic, almost a shout. “She’s nice and funny and sweet and pretty and you should take her, Jared. You should take her. She’ll like that. I bet she’s a great dancer, she’ll dance with you all night. All night until her ankles break!” He swallows, trying to catch his breath, overwhelmed by his own voice and how he sounds nothing like himself and he can feel his head nodding hysterically but he can’t stop it, can't get back to where he was, not even when Jared touches him again, grabs at his elbow and scoots into his space.

“Why are you saying this? Stop. _Stop_.” He grabs Jensen’s other arm and Jensen doesn’t bother trying to shake him off, lets his eyes drift to the patterns Jared was making in the dirt.

“It’s okay,” Jensen says. “It’ll be okay, you know. It’ll all be okay. Will be just fine, you’ll see.” He isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to.

“Yeah, it will. It will, Jensen. Everything’s gonna be great,” Jared tries to laugh and that’s how Jensen knows it’s really wrong, Jared never ever has to try. 

Jensen nods, wondering how many steps exactly it is from this tree to his car. 

“Gonna tell my parents I’m skipping it,” Jared says, with some sort of determination, his fists gripping Jensen’s arms enough to get his attention, to the point where it would probably be hurting right now if Jensen’s adrenaline wasn’t sky high. “It’s not worth it. If I can’t go with the only person I— Yeah, you know what, I really don’t need the memory of some dumb, hyped up—”

“Couple’s dance,” Jensen hears himself say, slow like thick blood.

Jared’s fingers clamp down harder.

“Have your picture taken together with special film. Professional. They do that, I think.”

“I know,” Jared says, one of his thumbs circling over the skin of Jensen’s inner arm, soft little sweeps.

“Lots of cameras. And lights. And music. Hey, maybe they’ll play Crimson and Clover there.”

Jared snickers, mutters _I doubt it_ , sound muted behind a thick fog of Jensen’s grief. He watches a beetle crawl up the side of the bench, tiny tiny steps.

“Share your first kiss under a disco ball, that’s neat,” Jensen says, cocking his head to watch from the beetle’s perspective. Jensen doesn’t think about what he’s saying anymore, it hurts too much for that.

"Is that what you think I should. Is that. That's what you want me to do?"

The silence that follows is the longest yet and seems to go on for weeks, until finally, Jared lets go of his arms and says, “Because that isn’t where I want to share my first.” And dimly, like it's happening to someone else, Jensen sees Jared’s big hands reaching for his face.

It isn’t anything Jensen’s prepared for. It comes at him like a fist to the gut and he doesn’t have time to react before Jared nods like he’s talking himself up and leans in, and then in some more, until his mouth is just about brushing against Jensen’s, Jensen’s eyes still wide open and a little cross-eyed from following Jared’s face all the way to his. 

Jensen lets out a small choked gasp against Jared’s lips, his _lips_ , that he's spent so long studying privately, and that seems to be all Jared needs because when Jensen doesn’t immediately push him off, Jared shoves right into his area and let’s one hand drop to pull at the back of Jensen’s neck, clutching at the collar of his shirt.

It’s long and deep and gets really filthy really quickly when Jensen feels Jared’s tongue come into his mouth. It's all wet warmth and little noises passed back and forth and Jensen kisses and kisses and kisses because he may not have known how before today, but this is _Jared_ and soon they’re panting and out of breath and they have to physically pry their faces apart to get any air, heaving and colored newborn babypink. Jensen’s lips feel puffy and tacky damp. He licks his upper lip just to taste it again, the faint trace of Sour Patch Kids.

Belatedly, Jensen realizes Jared’s hands are still on him, held down hard like he thinks Jensen might float away and that's good, that's real good because Jensen thinks it's just as well and likely a good possibility. He looks at Jared’s lightly muscled arms wrapped around the whole of him, then back up to his lips by accident, and finally, up higher, where Jared's looking right back at him with comically large eyes, waiting for some sort of reaction.

Their second kiss lasts even longer than the first.

 

-

 

At home, everything is still the same.

He still unlocks all three locks, still toes his shoes off by the door, still tosses his scraps of mail on the small table in the hall, hangs his keys on their little hook.

He still drops some pellets into Danni’s tank and watches as blood red feathery fins swish and part the water in her race to dinner. She’s been around for going on five years now, longer than the lady at PetSmart estimated. She’s a true fighter, lives up to her reputation. She feels like a Danni. He's always liked that name. 

He still talks to her about his days at work, or rants about snarky customers, crazy coupon ladies, reads aloud to her while he works on his crossword puzzles. He still does all the things he used to do. None of that has changed.

It's just everything inside him that's different now.

 

-

 

“Oh shit, shit. Hurry,” Jared says in short, sharp puffs against the side of Jensen’s neck. “I can't hold it much—“ He cuts off on a moan, teeth sinking into Jensen’s shoulder, separated by Jensen’s standard issue employee polo shirt.

Jensen hurries. He wouldn’t know how not to. Not when he’s still positive this could all disappear from his life just as quickly as it entered, because it's still too new and Jensen still has no idea what they're doing, this isn't how it used to be.

On the other side of the door, shopping carts with only three good wheels roll past, children whine for coins to use at the crane machine, whole lives are being led just a scant three yards away, blind to what’s going on right inside the locked family restroom.

Jensen trembles against the wall where Jared’s leaning up against him, pressing into him and jerking his hips in needy little thrusts; he knows Jared can feel his hand shaking as he palms him right between the legs but he couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He’s tried.

“Inside,” Jared says, his desperation such a pretty thing. Jared's forehead is fevered and sweaty and strands of his hair cling to his face. He's tall now, so tall, hit a growth spurt one summer and just kept on going, and Jensen’s so caught in just _watching_ him that he doesn’t catch Jared grabbing at his wrist and shoving it inside his pants until he’s holding Jared’s huge hard dick in his hand, bare and so, so warm and Jensen had no idea teenagers were made so finely.

 

-

 

Saturday rolls around and Jared comes in with his older brother but they're not dropping off any film and Jensen is sort of elsewhere so he doesn't exactly notice them at first.

It’s been four days since Jared crowded him into a bathroom at his workplace. Four since Jensen came in his pants just from Jared sucking on his neck and _holding his hand_ , and Jensen – Jensen is deep in a clouded daze, wondering if he made the entire thing up, every day since the park a long waking dream, borne out of repressed longing and a sheer force of will, maybe. 

But as he’s tidying up his workspace and getting ready to head to the back and start developing multiple sets of a young queenie pageant a weary father dropped off earlier, he looks up to find Jared standing at a cashier’s line a few feet away and staring at him while his elder buys a case of sodas, blissfully oblivious to the intense eyefucking his little brother is imparting on the lonely photo technician the rest of the family, when Jensen's facing the reality, has hardly glanced at in five years.

Jensen swallows hard, a nervous tic making him rub at his chin. He smiles awkwardly and Jared flashes him a meaningful look just before he walks out the sliding doors and Jensen has to put an embarrassing amount of effort into getting through the rest of his shift.

It's been eight days since the day at the park. But it's been five long years that it was locked in captivity.

 

-

 

Jared does end up going to the dance, despite what he said. 

Part of the dance, anyway. He does put on his nice, polished shoes and he does make an effort into combing his hair. He gets about halfway through the festivities before he beats out of there like the building's burning and shows up on the welcome mat at Jensen’s fourth floor apartment in his nice suit, with a _plain black_ tie, holding his side and huffing like he’d run the whole way. He smiles bright and large and Jensen continues to hold the door wide open in dumb shock.

It turns out to be a good thing Jared ended up going with his painter friend because Jensen doubts any young girl who thinks of it in romantic, idealistic ways would have much appreciated her date skipping out on her to go spend the rest of his evening twitching and gasping up at some guy's ceiling and getting his dick slowly and thoroughly sucked.

 

-

 

“Sorrowful, brooding poem,” Jared says, around the time it might be the last dance of the night.

He’s got his pants mostly on again but his fancy button up D&G is a lost cause, crumpled and missing most of the buttons and probably torn in some spots. It’s over by the fish tank where one of them flung it hours ago.

“Five letters, second is L,” he says again, tipping Jensen’s glasses down his nose like a school marm. He has no idea how beautiful he looks wearing them. 

Jared drums his fingers against the spine of this week’s puzzle book and when Jensen makes no attempt in answering him, screeches out an ungodly shrill buzzer noise and yells, “Time’s up! Seventeen across, elegy. You lose, Mr. Ackles. You fucking lose.”

“Well what was the prize?” Jensen asks, tracing the curve of Jared’s ankle, and not paying attention to much else. His heart and home feel full and something inside of him has been deeply sated.

Jared hops down from the couch and clambers over until he’s got Jensen on his back, straddling his stomach and he holds Jensen’s hands down with his own, bites the center of his lip red, and then leans down to whisper hot and dirty in Jensen’s ear.

 

-

 

Jensen doesn’t very much like having his own photo taken, as it turns out. It’s been a while since anyone has that he almost seemed to forget that little detail. Until the day an artificial camera shutter sound goes off right near his ear and he looks up to find Jared holding his cellphone, some techie thing that looks more to Jensen like a flat screen TV, and grinning sneakily.

“What was that?” Jensen asks, a tight ripple running through his belly uncomfortably.

“Oh, nothing, just some porn.”

“Some what?”

Jared rolls his eyes spectacularly well, one of those utterly youthful things that Jensen can’t quite master. He just looks like he’s spasming when he practices in the mirror.

“You, dummy. I needed a photo for when you call.”

And whatever horrible conclusions Jensen’s coming to must show on his face because right away Jared scoots closer and says in a soothing, suddenly mature voice, “Hey, no one else uses my phone. Promise. There’s a lock on it and everything.” He proceeds to fiddle around with the screen, sliding and pressing and though Jensen doesn’t hardly understand that mess of codes and swipes, it goes a long way in calming him down.

For the next half hour, Jared takes Jensen on a tour of his phone, showing him different buttons and functions and some things called apps and most of it goes over Jensen’s head but he likes to listen to Jared talk anyway.

It doesn’t take long for Jared to ease him into the art of iPhone photography and soon they're snapping photo after photo of random objects around the room: the overflowing bookshelf in the corner, some glamour shots of Danni, Jared's balled up socks under the coffee table, until Jared has to get home. Week nights are earlier curfews.

Jensen talks to Danni for a long time that night, curled up on the corner cushion of the couch under his soft fleece blanket that smells like Jared and he tells her that it’s not like that other thing, from before. It’s different this time. Jensen’s older now, much older, and the way Jared looks so awed when Jensen aims a smile at the phone and lets him capture it, it makes Jensen happy in ways he doesn’t even understand.

Jared doesn’t ask Jensen to perform. He doesn’t prop Jensen up in degrading angles or _positions_ or try to stick his fingers into Jensen’s mouth and push and push and he doesn’t ever _ever_ call Jensen his pretty little model.

Jared can take Jensen’s picture because Jared, at least, makes him feel like something special.

 

-

 

On days Jensen goes to work, he's as pleased as ever to be there. He enjoys what he does because he always has and because he's good at it. But it's no longer the high point of his day and now, he's good at other things too.

 

-

 

It escalates at an alarming rate. It's never enough, not for Jared, and definitely not for Jensen. Jared soon starts finding any excuse to come see him, even at the store if he has to. He starts showing up for off-the-wall, one item purchases so often that Jensen wonders if Jared’s not just squeezing out whole tubes of toothpaste (or mustard, or gasket sealant, or Vagisil) down the toilet.

He doesn't mention it, but he notices all the same. He does his best to hide the little smiles. Having his mouth and throat stuffed full really helps out with that.

 

-

 

For Jensen’s 29th birthday, Jared makes him call in sick to work. 

It wasn’t a pre-planned thing, at least not on Jensen’s part, but when Jared bangs on his door at eight in the morning with a box of donuts and two deep dimples that pierce Jensen’s heart, that’s it. There’s no way he can be expected to concentrate on any sort of job that doesn’t directly involve this thoughtful, beautiful boy; the one who skips school to come be with him, the one he’s spent years just thinking of having this way, the one who tells him over and over how much he loves him, just loves him so much.

It still doesn’t seem quite real yet and everyday he wakes up expecting it to all have been just another vivid dream. Good things like this don’t happen to people like Jensen.

On the way to the kitchen table, Jared nudges his hip and casually lets it slip that he was in such a hurry to get there that he ‘forgot’ to put on underwear. His black, black pupils are in direct violation with the shy little smile he’s trying to pass off and they end up getting sidetracked again.

After, when Jensen can catch his breath and his legs feel strong enough, he gets up and opens the bakery box with a dozen sugary frosted donuts and finds a rainbow sprinkled one with a lone candle plopped into it. Jared comes up behind him, rests his chin on Jensen’s shoulder and Jensen damn near almost breaks down right then and there. They light the little candle and Jensen stands there, blushing on the outside and even warmer on the inside, while Jared sings him a rough, wailing version of Happy Birthday that includes a few lewd extras Jensen doesn’t recall being in the original. But then, it’s been a long time since anyone’s cared to sing it for him so it’s up in the air really.

The rest of the day is spent basking in a cheat day of freedom, napping sporadically and gorging on sweets in the in between. It’s the finest birthday Jensen’s ever had and he tells Jared that, using communication methods he knows Jared is most fond of. Jensen’s mouth has always been his moneymaker.

“Oh wow, look at this dinosaur,” Jared says later that afternoon, standing at Jensen’s camera collection and picking up one of the older models. He spins it around in his hand, examining every little detail like it’s something from NASA. It’s a vintage pinhole camera that Jensen bought for a dollar at a garage sale and tinkered with until she worked again and it’s one of his favorites.

“Almost as old as me,” Jensen laughs and Jared purposely ignores that, continues inspecting.

After awhile, he puts it back and goes on to pick up another, then another. Standing in a pair of Jensen's boxers in the corner of Jensen’s bedroom, he makes little comments or remarks and asks the wherewhyhowwhen of everything, like always, and mentions that he’s never even owned a camera before, not a real one or anything. Just the cellphone he never goes anywhere without.

Jensen is affronted, truly and purely, and he tells Jared as much.

Jared laughs long and loud and goes back over to the bed and nudges his face into Jensen’s neck, smiling big enough that Jensen can feel it touch his skin and Jared tells him it’s really not a big deal. Jensen scoffs and tries to keep a frown on his face but with Jared starting up again, he can’t concentrate for long enough to pull it off. 

Which is why, months later when Jared’s 16th rolls around, it’s almost a joke when Jensen tosses the $7.99 Kodak disposable into his shopping cart. 

 

-

 

As far as Jensen’s concerned, the pace they’re moving at is just fine. It should probably frighten him out of his comfort zone, the fact that their physical relationship has gone quite literally from zero to sixty before he’s even aware of his foot on the gas. But it doesn’t and it’s beautiful and he thinks it would scare him more if he _couldn’t_ touch Jared, now that he knows how good it is.

And it’s _good_.

Jared comes over as often as he can, though it takes a lot of sneaking out after dark and weaseling his way into getting permission to stay the night at a friend’s house, and most of that time he funnels into finding new ways to make Jensen squirm and moan on his cock; a task that he tackles with an exhausting amount of energy, his stamina impressive for a boy his age. 

There aren’t many places left in Jensen’s little apartment that have gone undisturbed and somehow, they always seem to end up in a heap on the floor, panting and laughing and reeking to high hell of hours spent mindlessly fucking. Some days, he can come home from a shift and still be able to catch a scent of the night before. It’s really not as gross as it ought to be and Jensen takes a little thrill in waiting a bit longer before he Pine Sols the entire place down.

He’ll stand in the center of the room and look all around him, taking in a sexy sort inventory: the wall that held Jared up like a sober friend when Jensen showed him that it was possible to make him come using only the tips of his fingers on only the tip of his cock; the kitchen counter where Jared bent him over and rode his ass until they both lost coherency and forgot about the pasta Jensen was all set to make, pans and ingredients littering the floor tile; the couch where they sit and discuss and tickle and smile and work on Jensen’s crosswords together.

It’s the most lived-in Jensen’s home has ever felt and when each item holds some memory of the best thing that’s ever happened to him, he reckons it’s okay if the clean-up gets put off a little longer each time.

 

-

 

Jensen burns his timeworn albums, every picture one by one, methodically, all in one night. He watches, unblinking, as each memory from his past gets licked purple by the heat, curling and charring and crumbling into the sink. 

He rinses old hurt down the drain and only when it's all gone does he feel clean at last.

 

-

 

“Morning Jensen,” Mary Helen says when he walks by. She’s adjusting her little light-up honeybee pin on her work vest and she looks up when she sees him, cheerful rosy brightening her plump cheeks.

“Good morning, Ms. Mary,” he says, feeling a little optimistic and downright bubbly. “You look very nice today. New hair color?”

“Oh? Why yes, actually. Just had it done yesterday, Jensen. Thank you, thank you,” she says, turning into a schoolgirl and just about twirling a strand around her finger, not expecting his sudden attention of more than two words and clearly thrilled by it.

He nods, pleased with himself and with life in general, and makes his way to the lockers with his lunch sack and a helpless grin that won’t go away when he thinks about all of the tiny hurts decorating his naked body, on his inner thighs and lower back and one tender one just below the collar of his polo, pretty little reminders of Jared’s insatiable appetite. And the fact that nobody else has a single clue.

 

-

 

“How long?” Jared asks one night, right in the middle of sex. 

The little apartment on Hemlock street is soundless save for their breathing, and pitch black under the bedcovers. There hadn’t exactly been a steady flow of conversation going, some mild cursing and choked whispers of _like that, like that_ , but Jared had been gazing up at him in this contemplative, adoring sort of way that Jensen could feel something coming. He doesn’t pretend to not know what Jared means, Jared isn't stupid, but he tries to deflect on instinct.

He works his hips up and down in small twists, squeezing his thighs and ass until Jared makes a wounded noise and his hands go into fists around Jensen’s forearms and he asks again, harder, “Jensen, how long?”

“Awhile, I guess,” Jensen says, hoping that’ll be all. He tries to bear down again but Jared doesn’t let him move, locks down on the jutting bones of his sharp hips so he can't go anywhere. Jensen pulls back, looks at Jared long and hard, sees the hopeful expression and knows there’s only one way this can go, in the end. “Since you were a kid,” he says, a shameful whisper of the truth that sounds like he's screaming it when he says it aloud, out in the open like that. Where it can't be returned to its hiding spot, can't ever go back to wearing its muzzle now that it's finally been torn off. 

Jared nods and falls silent again, but he doesn’t look revolted or like he’s about to shove Jensen off of him, and he starts to pick up the pace, fucking up into Jensen harder, like he’s determined to keep going, set on making Jensen remember this, how much he enjoyed being fucked by a child. He's an animal being made to smell its own shit and it's what Jensen probably deserves.

But when Jared finally finishes himself off and goes still inside Jensen's body, he pulls Jensen tight to his ribs and says, “Me too. It wasn’t just you, Jensen. It wasn’t just you.” And then he kisses Jensen's mouth for so long that it eventually starts to numb like the rest of him. Jared is perfect.

 

-

 

“Like this?” Jared asks, pouting his lips into a smacking kiss and squinting his eyes, looking anything but sultry. It makes Jensen bite the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t laugh.

He has the lens aimed at Jared, who's propped up against a nest of pillows on Jensen’s mattress where the sheets are still all tangled and warm from earlier. There's a bite mark the shape of Jensen's teeth on his chest, his hair's a knotted, messy nest and the complete summation of his appearance is of one that has been very, very used. No way could Jensen resist leaving the bed to fetch his Polaroid. 

“Or what about this, maybe?” Jared rolls over onto his belly, hitches one knee up and turns back to look at the camera, a hint of a smile waiting to come out because he knows exactly how he looks. He’s playful and dorky, the type of smartass kid who always has a comeback handy and he’s all the things Jensen's life has ever lacked. “This how you want me?”

“Yes,” Jensen says, the sound of the camera going off covering his weak voice. This _is_ how he wants him.

Jared laughs and Jensen snaps another photo, not even bothering to look into the teeny square, just watches the scene outright, his finger pressing and clicking all on its own as Jared continues to make awful faces while squeezing his chest together, going for some sort of Playboy spread it looks like.

"Alright, alright, you've had your fun," Jared protests before too long, lightly shoving at Jensen's side with his bare foot. He doesn't even wait for the photos to dry, gathers them up and places them on the bedside table. He leans over the edge, his back a long, beautiful curved arch that Jensen's eyes roam over unapologetically, and scoops something out of the pocket of his hoodie.

"My turn now," he says, waving the cheap yellow camera Jensen had almost forgotten about. "Get over here. I want some of us together."

They put the entire roll of film to good use, getting a head start on Jensen's new albums.

 

-

 

Maybe it was because things were going so well for him that it had to happen, like maybe the universe couldn’t hold in so much of one person’s happiness that it merely imploded when its belly grew too full, engorged on pleasure and hope and real plans for the future, no more day by days.

Or maybe it was just a coincidence, pure luck, or a lack thereof, that Mrs. Padalecki showed up while Jensen was on lunch, hanging out in his car with Skeeter and fiddling with his new iPhone contraption that Jared talked him into buying online. And maybe it was just a coincidence that led to Jared’s mom piddling around the house, vacuuming and cleaning and finding a used camera in one of her children’s rooms. 

And maybe it was just the most extraordinary coincidence that she decided to take it upon herself to bring it in to have it developed. _Ready in one hour!_

And surely, surely, it has to be a coincidence that when Jensen clocks back in and returns behind the counter, that it's he who pulls her order from the bin, and thanks her for not going digital, and hands it over with the same care and pride he always uses when giving over pieces of another person's whole world.

Maybe it's all a coincidence.

Or maybe that's just life.

 

-

 

“Ackles,” they say, calm and clinical, an hour after they've walked him in. 

It’s more or less like being in a hospital waiting room, or the DMV, just rows and rows of chairs bolted together and enough people to fill them, each one more miserable than the one before. It’s a quiet, anticipating sort of hysteria, and not counting the retinal scan or fingerprinting they do as soon as he shuffles up, he can almost pretend he’s simply renewing his license or getting looked at for a sinus infection.

The man behind the desk asks him for his information, if Jensen knows what he’s in for, what he’s being charged with and Jensen answers him respectfully, quiet but polite. _L. BISHOP_ his name tag reads, slightly crooked on his shirt, and Jensen wishes he could reach over and fix it a little. He looks down at his own to make sure it's on right, still in his _Retail Rodeo Mart_ uniform when they came and escorted him out of work.

The clock on the wall says 3:25, just about the time Jared will be getting out of school, and Jensen lets that sweet thought curl around him tight, thinks of nothing else as Sergeant Bishop takes him through the process.

 

-

 

When Jared was a much younger boy, he had a pet lizard. He found it in his mother's backyard garden, a little green thing not bigger than his pinky. After it crawled up the side of his arm and nested right into his hair, he simply couldn’t stand the idea of letting it go; so much so that he ended up keeping it as a pet, sneaking chunks of lettuce from the dinner table or digging up baby worms for it to snack on. 

He thinks about that now, about the tiny gecko and Jared’s utter determination to keep it, how crushed Jared would have been if his mother had made him set it free, no longer his to care for and play with and pet gently, not being able to see it whenever he wanted.

 

-

 

The walls are concrete and very high, beige in that impersonal way. The table is steel and scuffed and the chair isn’t very comfortable. It’s nothing like those ritzy cop shows on TV want you to think. 

After Detective Morgan takes his statement, he turns the recorder off and quietly sits at the other side of the table, watching Jensen for a long, long time. It’s almost sympathetic. Jensen doesn’t react one way or the other because he knows what people must think of him, what they must see him as, and he doesn’t speak up until Morgan is just about to walk out of the room, and only then just to ask if he may see the pictures, _please_.

Morgan says something about the photographs being evidence and not keepsakes but he’s been sitting in this cold, hardened room with Jensen for over two hours, hearing his life from age five up until now and ultimately, ends up sliding over the stack of photos and leaving Jensen alone with them. _Ten minutes,_ he says, and Jensen smiles agreeably.

When he sees Jared again, he’ll touch him and kiss him and tell him how sorry he is that he had to go away for awhile. He’ll listen to Jared laughing or moaning or bitching about a college thesis and before day’s end, he’ll walk Jared into the Ferris' Wheel Diner so Ms. Samantha can ooh and ahh and tell Jensen what a handsome young man he has on his arm, _aren't you just a cutie?_ But for now, Jensen pulls his pile of memories closer to him and flips through his stack of photos until they tell him it’s time to go. 

They move around him carefully, but not as though they're scared of him, no, no. The collective look on their solemn faces gives off the impression that perhaps they're scared _for_ him, for how he'll take it, like any second now he might start sobbing out hiccups. Well they can all just relax, settle down class, settle down. 

Jensen didn't cry when they put him in the backseat in front of all his co-workers, and he didn't cry when he realized what it all meant. And he doesn't cry now either because he _wouldn't_. Because Jensen never does. Daddy made sure of that. And three years is nothing. It’ll be nothing at all. He’s waited longer for Jared before.

On the way out of the room, he asks Detective Morgan if he can make sure that somebody feeds his fish.


End file.
